


we belong to the sound of the words

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [21]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Babies, Comic-Con, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Relationship, Family, Family Fluff, Fan Characters, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hugs, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Sickfic, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: Eddie’s got a messenger bag across his shoulders and, when they’re brought out to Richie’s autograph table, he’s glad he brought it. It’s full of tissues, hand sanitizer, granola bars, mini water bottles, zinc tablets, lozenges, and anything else he could think to grab. The con floor is fuckingpacked,and Richie’s got a whole goddamnedlineof fans waiting for him that scream and cheer when he comes out.“Hey!” Richie shouts, and waves. A bunch of them wave back. Eddie freezes, looking at the line weaving so far back he can’t see the end.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 56
Kudos: 489





	we belong to the sound of the words

**Author's Note:**

> Did someone ask for con dad Eddie?? Well, you're getting him.
> 
> This one is for my Twitter gc posting council, because I love them very much.
> 
> Title taken from ["We Belong"](https://open.spotify.com/track/665Jxlgi1HamPKbW1vwzx4?si=QfWxXdCwTauwcFdr5zFKFg) by Pat Benatar.

Eddie gets why Richie likes doing conventions and shit like that. He gets it. He _really_ does. Richie’s done a ton of TV shows and movies, and now he’s in that _Star Wars_ show, so he keeps getting asked to attend all these different cons. The first one he’s willing to do after reviving his career isn’t in San Diego, though, because when he thinks about how crowded it is there, he has a minor panic attack.

Instead, they’re at New York Comic Con for his first post-breakdown and career revival convention, and Eddie’s come along to help him at the autographing table he has. He also has a couple of panels he has to speak on, and a few hours where he has to take professional photos with fans, but Eddie’s just planning to hide somewhere while he’s doing that.

When they’re first let into the building, it’s empty, and they’re led into a back area. Richie had stood in front of their closet for several minutes that morning trying to figure out what to wear, since he’d be showing up in a shitload of pictures in whatever it was. He put on a sweater and asked Eddie what he thought, and Eddie had said, “Isn’t it going to be hot there?” Richie had thrown the sweater deep into the closet and made Eddie decide.

Now, Richie’s wearing what they landed on, which is just a soft faded _Scream_ t-shirt he’s had since the movie came out in ‘96 with his dark red blazer over it. His dark jeans are sorta new, so they still fit him well. Eddie keeps looking at his ass and his legs when he walks behind him, and he’s pretty sure Richie’s realized that.

“And it’s okay that my husband’s there with me, right?” Richie asks, and Eddie looks up at the question. The volunteer who was leading them to their waiting area stops and glances at Eddie like he’s got the plague.

“Whatever,” she says. Richie looks back at Eddie and winks, mouthing, _“Whatever!”_ at him.

Eddie’s got a messenger bag across his shoulders and, when they’re brought out to Richie’s autograph table, he’s glad he brought it. It’s full of tissues, hand sanitizer, granola bars, mini water bottles, zinc tablets, lozenges, and anything else he could think to grab. The con floor is fucking _packed,_ and Richie’s got a whole goddamned _line_ of fans waiting for him that scream and cheer when he comes out.

“Hey!” Richie shouts, and waves. A bunch of them wave back. Eddie freezes, looking at the line weaving so far back he can’t see the end. Richie takes his seat behind his table and motions for Eddie to sit beside him.

“Where the fuck did all these people come from?” Eddie asks, choked. Richie motions again, so Eddie takes the seat.

“They’re my fans,” Richie tells him, grinning. “You knew I had fans, Eddie. You’ve been to my shows. You follow me on Twitter. People take pictures of us in the street, Eds.”

Eddie looks at the people waiting for Richie to motion them forwards, and he turns to him; even he can feel how wide-eyed and flushed his face is, but he just says, “Richie, you’re going to get _sick._ All these people are going to _touch you.”_

Richie squeezes his shoulder. “That’s what I’ve got you and your medical bag for, Dr. K.”

The messenger bag suddenly doesn’t have enough in it. Eddie wishes he’d brought gloves, and— and Emergen-C, and maybe masks for the both of them. Maybe an entire fucking HAZMAT suit for Richie.

“Do they _have_ to touch you?” Eddie asks quietly.

“I said I was okay with selfies,” Richie says. He looks Eddie over, then leans in closer and says, “If you’re not okay with it, we can—”

“No!” Eddie exclaims, then continues, “No, no, I— This is fine.” He digs through his bag and comes up with the hand sanitizer and goes around the table.

“What are you—” Richie asks, laughing, but Eddie just holds up the hand sanitizer bottle in his hand.

“Use this when you come up!” Eddie announces to the line. “I don’t want any of you getting sick!”

A couple of people cheer, and then most of the line claps for him. Eddie looks back to Richie and rolls his eyes.

“They love you,” Richie whispers, when Eddie sticks the bottle on the table. Eddie just shoots him a disgruntled look and takes his seat beside him again. Richie kisses the back of his hand. The people closest to them loudly _“Aw,”_ and Eddie scowls at them. Richie just laughs.

“You ready to go?” the volunteer asks. Richie nods, then opens his arms.

“Send in the clowns!” he declares. The first person to come up looks at him nervously, all wide eyes and shaking hands around a piece of paper she’s clutching in her hands. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, what’s your name?”

“Amy,” she says quietly.

“Hi, Amy, I’m Richie,” he tells her. He’s so warm and genuine to her that Eddie melts a little bit watching him. “What’ve you got there?”

She hands over the paper in her hands, and Eddie leans over Richie’s shoulder to look at it. It’s a subpar pencil drawing of Richie; Richie looks absolutely delighted.

“You _drew me?”_ Richie asks. Amy nods vigorously. “This is _amazing!”_

Amy’s face goes all red, and she says, “You can keep it, if you want.”

“Can I?” Richie asks. “Did you want me to sign it, though?”

She shakes her head. “Not if you want it.”

Richie looks genuinely touched, and then he grabs one of the headshots of him that they set out and signs it for her, writing _for amy, the greatest artist of our generation, love richie,_ and then asks, “Do you want a selfie?”

Amy nods again, so Richie leans over the table to grin when she pulls out her camera.

Most of the fans are just like that. A bunch of them come up with things for Richie in their hands — drawings, keychains, bracelets, snacks (that Eddie confiscates to examine himself) — and some even bring shit for Eddie.

“How’d you even know I’d be here?” he asks, bewildered, as a girl named Kris hands them each a tiny watercolor portrait of themselves. It’s actually _really_ good and looks a lot like him, Eddie realizes, holding it up closer to his face.

“I didn’t,” she says. “I just figured Richie’d bring it back to you. He’s always talking about you in interviews and stuff so you must be pretty cool.”

Eddie’s whole face flushes, and Richie grins at him like a dumbass when the girl leaves. “Look, now _you’ve_ got fans.”

“Shut up,” Eddie snaps. He sets his watercolor aside gently and resolves to keep it on his nightstand at home.

After forty-five minutes, Eddie starts to get nervous. Not for himself, really, and not very much for Richie, because he’s keeping Richie fed and hydrated himself, and he keeps putting hand sanitizer on his hands. He’s _more_ nervous about the fans, because they’ve all been standing there for at least an hour, probably longer. He’s not sure if they’re allowed to bring food or drinks inside.

“Alright, hold on,” Eddie says, when he notices a couple of people sitting down in line. He digs through his bag and holds up a couple of granola bars. “I have with and without nuts, does anyone have low blood sugar?”

A couple of people raise their hands, so Eddie ducks under the table to go into the line with his messenger bag to distribute his goods. He can hear Richie laughing at him as he goes, but he wants to help, even if he’s sort of embarrassing himself to do so.

“I also have mini water bottles,” Eddie says, and a woman takes one for her little boy. “Take hand sanitizer, put this on your hands.”

“Thanks, Mr. Tozier,” a little girl says politely as he passes her a snack bag of fruit gummies. Eddie’s heart, weirdly, seizes.

“No problem,” he says, instead of correcting her. He fights his way back out of the line and returns to the table.

“Did you bring the Black Plague back with you?” Richie asks, when he sits back down. Eddie covers his hands and goes up his arms a little bit with his hand sanitizer, just in case.

“I fucking hope not,” Eddie tells him.

“You’re such a good mom,” Richie says. Eddie glares at him.

The next person is actually a group of ten people that shuffle up to the table together. The first one sets down a gift basket on the table and steps back; they all look nervous.

“What is _this?”_ Richie asks incredulously.

“We all put something in it,” one of them says. “We each made something for both of you.”

“Both of us?” Eddie echoes. The fan nods.

“Yeah,” the fan says. “We all met because of you guys and, like, it started because we liked Richie’s standup and he was good on _SNL_ but then after you came out,” and they look to Richie, face red, “and we— That meant so much to us. To see someone like us.” They look embarrassed as they glance back at Eddie and say, “You, too. Thanks.”

Eddie feels like _he’s_ tearing up, so he’s not surprised to look over at Richie and find him already starting to cry. He gets up and says, “Are you guys okay with being hugged?”

All of them nod and assure him they are, and they both climb under the table to talk closer with them. The one who’d started talking first introduces themselves as Addie, and Richie hugs them, squeezing them tight before releasing them. Richie’s steadily crying, so Addie passes him on to the next woman.

“I like your hair,” Richie says, because she’s got bright red bangs, and she bursts into tears.

“Thank you,” she says. “I just love you, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Richie tells her. “If you’re a mess, I’m a mess,” and he motions at the tears on his own face.

“He cries _constantly,”_ Eddie assures her. She huffs a teary laugh.

“My name’s Gillian,” she tells him, and he opens his arms and says.

“Hi, Gillian, I’m Richie,” he says. “Are you okay with hugs?”

She nods vigorously, and Richie pulls her in, letting her bury her face in his chest and hold him tightly. He rubs her back and rests his cheek against her hair as she cries on him. After a moment, he squeezes her shoulders, and she pulls back, wiping at her face.

Eddie _doesn’t_ hug, as a rule, but watching this is making him want to be involved, so he steps forward a little bit and says, “You guys— You should use the hand sanitizer. But then I’m okay if you want a hug, too.”

Addie squirts the hand sanitizer right into their hands and lathers it between their fingers before embracing Eddie. Eddie pats her on the back and only hugs for a couple of seconds, unlike Richie’s minutes-long hugs, but he hugs Gillian, too, so he’s relatively proud of himself.

The next one’s a guy who introduces himself as Noah, and Richie hugs him, too. Richie spends a couple minutes talking to each one after he hugs them, and then he passes them on to Eddie, who hugs them and talks with them while Richie works his way through the group. After Noah they’re joined by Norma, and Richie says, “Like Norma Bates?”

“You’re insufferable,” Eddie shoots at him, before he can filter himself. The ten of them are quiet for a moment before they laugh.

“He _is_ funny,” Noah says.

“Did you think I wasn’t funny?” Eddie demands. _“I’m_ the funny one. _Richie’s_ the unfunny one.”

“Believe him,” Richie says. “He’s been there since day one.”

After Norma is Bucky, who doesn’t seem to want to let go of Richie, so Richie just keeps hugging her until she’s ready to be done, and then Kelso, who excitedly grabs the hand sanitizer before she hugs either of them. The next one is so short she has to stretch up to hug Richie properly; she says her name is Liz, and she hugs Eddie so hard he has to tighten his grip back. After her is Aja, and they grip Richie tight, too. He hugs them back just as tightly before launching into easy conversation with them. The second-to-last one introduces herself as Lauryn and has an accent she informs them is Scottish, and she nearly knocks Eddie off his feet hugging him. Eddie hugs her back tightly, now that he’s getting the hang of it, and she laughs in delight. The last one is so short she has to crane her head back to look up at Richie.

“Hey, there, half-pint,” he says, and she laughs.

“My name’s Nicole,” she tells him. “How’s the fucking weather up there?”

Richie laughs and lets her hug him, too, resting his cheek on the top of her head and winds his arms around her. He has to hunch over just to hug her, which makes them both laugh; he lifts her off the ground, shakes her a bit, then puts her down.

“Don’t sue me for that,” he says, before asking what she put in the basket. She talks to him excitedly, digging through the basket for her contribution.

“Are you having fun at the con?” Kelso asks Eddie, and he shrugs.

“This place feels like a fucking breeding ground for bacteria,” he says, and a couple of them glance at each other. “Wait. What? Why did you do that?”

“Everyone gets sick after cons,” Bucky says.

“It’s called con crud,” Norma tells him. “Like, _everyone_ gets sick. It’s usually just a cold or something. Sometimes a flu.”

Eddie stares at them. “And you just— What, you just _accept_ this?”

“We wanted to meet Richie,” Gillian tells him. It just boggles his fucking _mind._

“Take some of this hand sanitizer,” Eddie insists, pulling a bunch out of his bag and passing them out. He gives them handfuls of granola bars, too, and mini water bottles, before Nicole comes over and he hugs her, too. He shoves a hand sanitizer bottle into her hands afterwards. “Take this. _Use this._ Do _not_ get sick.”

“Roger dodger,” she says, pocketing the hand sanitizer. “Can we take selfies with you guys? Is that okay?”

 _“Hell yes,”_ Richie exclaims, and takes selfies with them one-by-one. Eddie offers to take a group photo after, and he does, but then they want one with him _in it,_ which Eddie doesn’t fully understand, since _he’s_ not the famous one.

“Because we like you, too,” Noah tells him, and they all nod. He gets in the picture and the volunteer takes it on their phones, and then takes another one on Richie’s phone for them to keep.

“We’re getting pictures with you later, too,” Addie tells them.

“Then I will see _you_ all later,” he says, and they all group-hug him and Eddie before being ushered out of line. The volunteer hands Richie’s phone back over to him.

“That was cute,” she says. “You can’t do it again.”

“Aw, why not?” Richie asks, as they’re escorted back around the table to their seats and the next couple of fans come up.

“Because you only have so much time,” the volunteer says. Eddie looks out over the long line still remaining.

“Well, I’m gonna talk to all of them,” Richie tells her. She laughs, but Eddie _knows_ Richie. He _means_ that.

* * *

Of _course_ he really meant it. He spends three hours signing every single picture, taking every single selfie, and having every _single_ conversation he can with each fan waiting in line. While he does it, Eddie prowls the line periodically, distributing hand sanitizer, tissues, water bottles, and anything else he can dig out of his bag to give out.

When the last fan comes up and hands Richie a bag of cookies before taking a selfie with him and leaving, Richie looks exhausted. He’s still beaming, though, and he runs his hands back through his hair to push it out of his face when Eddie gets back to him.

“Do _not_ touch your mouth or your eyes,” Eddie demands. He covers his own hands in hand sanitizer, then covers Richie’s hands himself, cleaning them off with disinfectant-wet fingers. The volunteer leads them back to the waiting area and abandons them there.

“Fuck,” Richie says, setting down the box full of gifts from his fans next to the empty sofa Eddie’s claimed for them. He looks through it for a moment before collapsing backwards and rubbing at his face under his glasses. “I wasn’t really anticipating this. I mean, a bunch of people Tweeted me saying they were coming, but I didn’t— I figured people would wanna see, like— I don’t know. Harrison Ford.”

“I don’t think he comes to these things,” Eddie says distractedly, counting how many granola bars he has left in his bag. He looks up at Richie. “You mean a lot to them. I don’t know why, but you do.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” Richie says from behind his hands. He reveals his face again and rolls his head against the back of the sofa to look at Eddie. “Would you be my fan if you didn’t know me?”

“I absolutely wouldn’t come to see you at a convention,” Eddie says, “I’ll tell you that much right the fuck now, Richie. This place is a _cesspool.”_

“Does this mean you’re not coming to my Q&A panel anymore?” Richie asks, frowning theatrically at him. Eddie sighs.

 _“Fine,”_ he says. “But I’m not going on stage, Richie. I mean it.”

“Not even for a second?” Richie asks. Eddie shakes his head.

“I _mean it,”_ he insists. Richie waves his hands at him dismissively.

“Fine, you _mean it,”_ Richie echoes.

“Have they got all your pictures?” Eddie asks, and Richie grins.

“They’ve got my whole fucking _PowerPoint,”_ Richie tells him, and Eddie groans.

* * *

“And as you can see from this first image over here,” Richie says, halfway through his Q&A panel, aiming a laser pointer at a picture of him and Eddie from when they were fifteen, “Eddie should’ve known I was gay _far_ before he actually did.”

Eddie slumps down further in his chair in the front row. He’s got his hood up and tightened a bit, hopeful that nobody will be able to tell who he is from behind or from the sides where he’s sitting. In the picture, he’s got an oversized sweater on (come to think of it, it was actually Richie’s sweater) and it’s tucked into stonewashed jeans that are _far_ too tight. He can see every muscle of his legs. He’s sitting on the railing of the Kissing Bridge, legs a blur of swinging motion, while Richie leans next to him in a long flannel shirt, laughing his fool head off. He’s got long curling hair hanging in his face and oversized glasses sliding off his nose, and he looks so Richie that Eddie’s heart aches.

It was one in a shitload of pictures dug out of the Denbroughs’ basement. Richie had shrieked when he found it, and vigorously pointed at the bridge when he showed it to Eddie.

“And as you can see here,” Richie says, moving the laser pointer to circle _R + E_ carved into the bridge near them, “I was in love with Eddie from a _very_ young age.”

“When did you do that?” his panel moderator asks. She’d introduced herself as Savannah, but Eddie’s not sure if he’s supposed to know who she is or not.

“When I was thirteen,” Richie says. “But that’s not all. Look at _this.”_ He aims the laser pointer at Eddie’s carved _R_ in a heart. Eddie slumps down a little bit more in his chair as Richie looks over to him to give him a shit-eating grin.

“And what’s that?” Savannah asks.

“Oh, Eddie carved that himself when _he_ was thirteen,” Richie tells her smugly. “Dumbass was in love with me, too.”

The audience laughs, including Eddie. He’s grinning through most of it, though he is red-faced and mortified at the same time. Richie clicks through to his next slide, and it’s a picture of him fast asleep in bed, on his side, Eddie curled over his back. Riley is tucked into Richie’s chest, Audrey is pressed into his stomach, and Nora is in a ball, sleeping with her head in his open palm, his fingers curling in towards her hair. He’s curled around the three of them, protective over them even in his sleep.

The whole audience goes, _“Aw!”_ and Richie laughs. “Yeah, we’re cute, right?”

“Yes!” a bunch of people shout back. Richie grins again.

“Yeah, we are,” he affirms. He looks back at the picture, then says, “I actually had someone say something really cool to me today. I had this group come up to my autograph table and say that they liked me _and_ Eddie because it meant a lot to them to see people like them out there.” Richie takes a long moment looking up at the picture, then looks back out at the audience. He makes eye contact with Eddie. “I didn’t think a lot about what it would do for other people out there. Me coming out, I mean. I’m glad I included this slide, after I talked to that group today, because I almost didn’t.”

“How come?” Savannah asks.

“I almost didn’t because it’s a really personal photo,” Richie says. “My friend Stan took it for us. It’s one of my favorite pictures we have.”

“It’s really sweet,” Savannah says. Eddie’s heart is racing; he knows his face is flushed. He loves Richie a stupid amount. “Why’re you glad you included the slide?”

Richie glances back up at the slide. He looks at it while he says, “Because I want people to see how normal it is.” He’s about to say something else, but he’s cut off by the whole audience cheering. Richie looks back to Eddie, grinning, and Eddie stands up, too, whistling just to make Richie laugh, delighted when it works.

“I want people to see how normal it is,” Richie repeats, when everyone’s quieted back down and sat back down. It’s a huge auditorium they’re sitting in, but it still feels intimate. Eddie wonders if that’s just because he knows Richie, or because Richie is _Richie,_ and he makes every place feel like home just by being there. “That, yeah, I mean, I’m an actor and a comedian and stuff, and I have that crazy public persona or whatever. And I’m— I heard I’m a gay icon?” A few people scream, and he laughs. “I guess I’m a gay icon. But it’s also a lot of this.”

Richie clicks the remote again, and the next slide comes up. It’s Eddie trying to wash Riley in the sink; she’s covered in spaghetti sauce and shrieking with laughter while Eddie, grinning and red-faced from trying not to laugh himself and encourage her, attempts to hose her down with the nozzle from the faucet.

“It’s a lot of this,” Richie says again, while the audience laughs. Eddie’s warmed by looking at the picture; it also makes him miss their girls ferociously, even if it’s only been a few hours. “Just— You know. The little daily stuff. It’s stuff I didn’t really get to do when I was younger. A lot of people fall in love and get married and have kids in their twenties and thirties, but I couldn’t be with the guy I was in love with until we were both forty. Eddie’s worth the wait, don’t get me wrong, but I spent so many years _hating_ myself and isolating myself.” He flips to the next slide. It’s a photo of Richie, mugging for the camera with huge sunglasses on; he’s got Audrey in his left arm and Nora in his right, and they each have oversized sunglasses on their tiny faces, too.

The audience goes, _“Aw!”_ again while Richie says, “Yeah, we’re adorable. Look at how happy we look there.” He turns to the crowd again and says, “Guys, I spent— just, _so_ many years being miserable. After talking with you guys at shows and stuff like that, and then getting to talk with so many of you today… I don’t want you to be like me. I’m gonna tell you the same thing I tell my girls: you _have_ to be yourself. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.” Eddie can feel his face getting hot again, the back of his nose prickling. “Be yourself and take care of yourselves. If other people don’t like that? Fuck them. Be authentic to yourselves or you’ll be fucking miserable. Take it from someone who took forty years to learn that lesson.”

When he stops talking, the entire audience jumps up and starts applauding. Some people are screaming, some are chanting his name, and some people are whistling. Eddie gets up and claps, too, and Richie makes eye contact with him. He motions, then raises his eyebrow; it’s a question, not an instruction. Eddie can’t really say no, after something like that. He’s in tears himself as he gets up from his seat and goes to the little staircase off to the side. A security guy stops him.

“No, that’s my husband,” Richie shouts to the guy. He looks up at the slideshow, then clicks to the next picture. It’s their most recent family photo, taken at Bev’s house during a family dinner. They had, miraculously, managed to color-coordinate both themselves _and_ all three girls in pinks and reds, and Bev had made them stand against one of her exposed brick walls and take a picture together.

Eddie’s sitting down with his legs folded, Audrey in his lap, smiling up at him with her head tipped back a little bit. Richie’s next to him, legs stretched out, Nora propped up in his lap against his chest; Riley’s kneeling in between them, grinning delightedly at the camera.

“See?” Richie says, aiming the laser pointer at Eddie’s face. “Let the guy up.”

The security guy lets Eddie pass, and he jogs over to Richie. Richie pulls him into a hug, tipping him back and forth a little bit before drawing back.

“Can I kiss you?” Richie asks, forgetting that he’s got a microphone clipped onto his shirt, and it echoes through the whole auditorium. He laughs. “Whoops.”

The audience cheers again, with some people shouting, “Kiss! _Kiss!”_

“Can’t really say no to that,” Eddie tells him, and pulls him in by the collar of his t-shirt to kiss. Richie has to stoop down to his level, because Eddie doesn’t roll up on his toes to grant him any give like he usually does. Richie grins against his mouth at the move.

“Can he answer questions, too?” Richie asks Savannah. The crowd screams.

“I don’t see why not,” she tells them, and a stagehand volunteer runs out onto the stage to set up another chair for Eddie; within seconds, they were gone again. Eddie took the seat, a little bewildered.

“Alright, lemme at ‘em,” Richie says, clapping his hands together. “Bring on the Qs, I’ll bring on the As.”

There are two microphones set up in the two center aisles of the auditorium, and they each have a line of fans standing at them. The first fan up says, “Hi, I— I just wanted to say, you have such nice hair— What hair products do you use?”

Eddie bursts out laughing, then says, into the microphone Savannah hands him, “He once used dish soap on his hair for a _week_ before I caught him and told him that doesn’t _fucking work._ He’s just grossly lucky.”

“Why should I even be here? Eds should just answer all the questions for me,” Richie says. The fan laughs. “Nah, he’s right, though, I’m just lucky. I’ve got nice hair.”

“And he’s humble,” Eddie adds. The fan laughs and thanks them and sits down.

“Richie, you really love your husband a lot, right?” the next fan asks. Richie looks at Eddie and grins.

“Yup,” he says, “I do,” and Eddie’s dumb heart catches again.

“So, why did you—” the fan starts to continue, before their friend elbows them and they stop. The friend hisses, _“Don’t ask that,”_ and Richie’s frowning when Eddie glances back at him.

“Whatever it was, trust your friend’s instincts,” Richie jokes, looking a little pale. The fan laughs a little.

“Yeah, never mind,” she says. “Different question. Uhh… Are you aware of the ‘What is Richie Tozier Doing Right Now’ Twitter account?”

 _“No,”_ Richie answers excitedly, and a couple of fans bring their phones up to the stage to show him a Twitter account that just generates Tweets about what Richie, theoretically, is doing at any given moment. There’s a couple like, _Richie Tozier is currently putting his daughters to bed. They don’t want to go to sleep, but they’ll fall asleep eventually anyways. Richie’s proud of them.,_ which is nice, and a couple like, _Richie Tozier is currently debating whether or not he can make a jump from his roof to the tree in his front yard. He thinks he can do it because he’s tall. He’s forgetting he’s forty. Don’t try it, Richie. You’ll only hurt yourself.,_ which makes Richie laugh.

“These are probably all real thoughts I’ve had before,” Richie says, scrolling through a fan’s phone to read a couple more before he passes it back. “Well, _now_ I’m aware of it, and I _love it.”_

“Great, next question,” Savannah says, and the fan and her friend leave. Eddie wonders what her first question was.

“Can I give you a hug?” is the next question, and Richie grins.

“Absolutely,” he says. He jumps off the edge of the stage and the fan jogs up to him; he catches them in a hug and swings them around, laughing. When he clambers back up on the stage, apparently forgetting that there are stairs, Eddie goes to help, hauling him up by the wrists.

“Okay, no more hugs for Richie,” Savannah says. The crowd groans.

“Look at me, I’m so old and unwell,” Richie tells them, “I can’t get up and down like I used to.”

The crowd laughs as the next fan comes up and asks, “Why, uhh… What are you so good for?”

Richie hesitates, then says, “I’m sorry, I don’t— What do you mean by that?”

The fan blushes, and Eddie feels bad. They say, “I mean, why are you… you’re really fucking good. And cute.”

Eddie feels a weird little flare of jealousy, which is kind of insane, since he and Richie are married and this is a random fan at a convention. He looks back to Richie anyways; Richie’s already got a shit-eating grin on his face, like he can read Eddie’s fucking thoughts.

“You’re the first one to think so,” Richie says. A bunch of the crowd disagrees with him. “Well, second after Eds, then.”

“Who said I think you’re cute?” Eddie asks. Richie laughs, reeling him in to kiss him on the cheek. When Richie lets him go, Eddie says, “Fine, he’s cute.”

Though that wasn’t really a question, the fan steps aside anyways, and the next fan says, “Actually, I have a question for Eddie.”

“Shoot,” Eddie says. He feels a lot more comfortable and confident with Richie next to him, even if this really isn’t his place, it’s Richie’s. The thing is, though, in the end, Eddie’s place is at Richie’s side, and Richie’s place is at Eddie’s side, no matter what. Even in situations like this.

“How do you keep from jumping Richie all the time?” the fan asks. A bunch of people laugh, including Richie.

“I can’t imagine it’s difficult,” Richie says. “But it’s Eddie’s question. Go for it, Eds.”

He looks so fucking smug, so Eddie can’t help but look out into the audience and say flatly into his microphone, “I don’t.”

It takes the audience a second to process what he’s said, because of his dry tone, but Richie gets it immediately, after so many years of knowing Eddie, and starts laughing immediately, doubled over in his seat.

“It’s true,” Richie says, as the audience catches on and laughs. “Guys, I’m gonna tell you right now, when I say be yourself, I mean _be yourself._ Embrace your libido—”

“Stop!” Savannah exclaims. “Can’t do that! Can’t say that!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie apologizes, as the next fan comes up. “They _did_ know my name was Trashmouth when they brought me in for this panel, though, right? I can’t help but feel like this should be an eighteen-plus-only panel, with someone like me here.”

The next fan steps up and asks, “Richie, same question for you. How do you keep from jumping Eddie all the time?”

Richie leans over to Eddie’s microphone, even though he has his own clipped on, and does a tone-perfect impression of Eddie as he responds, “I don’t.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie says, grinning and pushing him away.

“Can you introduce me to Kate McKinnon?” the next fan asks, and Savannah sighs.

* * *

Eddie decides to watch Richie’s professional photo ops with his fans, because he’s been enjoying the con way more than he thought he was going to, even though he does keep drenching the two of them in hand sanitizer. He can’t get to Richie in between each photo, because they go so quickly, so he starts getting nervous watching him, but it’s also a lot of fun.

Different fans ask Richie to do different poses. A couple ask if they can get on his back, and he lets them, even though he and Eddie both know how bad his back is. Most of them hug him in the picture; a few ask if he’ll do prom poses with them, and Eddie likes those ones best. A few people even ask if Eddie will come into the picture, too, and Eddie accepts, stepping in and feeling like he’s standing awkwardly in each of the photos he’s in. The fans seem to like him there, though.

For one of the last photos before Richie’s supposed to be done, two young women come in and ask if Eddie will come in the picture, too. He comes over, and Richie puts his arm around his shoulders, grinning. At the last moment before the photo is taken, though, the woman on the left turns and gets down on one knee, holding up a ring to the other woman.

“Oh, my God,” Eddie says, while Richie’s hands fly up over his mouth. The woman being proposed to starts crying only moments before Richie does. The photo takes just then, the flashbulb going off, and Richie makes a high-pitched sound from deep inside his throat.

“Thanks for letting us be part of this,” Richie tells them, when they’ve gotten the ring on and turned around to hug the two of them after the photo.

“I came out because of you,” the woman who proposed says. Richie cries a little harder. “And we met because we were both big fans of you on Twitter, and now we live together and she got to move out of her shitty mom’s house and now we get to get married, I guess.” She smiles at her new fiancée.

“Thank you,” Richie says again, tearfully, pulling them in for a second hug. Eddie lets them hug him again, too, before they leave. Richie hugs Eddie once they’re gone.

“You’re amazing,” Eddie tells him quietly. Richie huffs.

 _“You’re_ amazing,” Richie echoes. He squeezes him and lets him go, and Eddie retreats behind the camera again so Richie can finish the last photos with the last fans.

It’s the last thing Richie has scheduled, and he wants to walk around the con floor, but the volunteers won’t let him unless he’s in a costume or a disguise, so he resolves to dress like “a Stormtrooper or something” next year when he comes.

“You want to come next year?” Eddie asks, as they’re going out to their car with all the stuff fans brought for the two of them. Richie sticks the box in the trunk while Eddie gets in the driver’s seat.

“I think it’d be nice,” Richie says. He shuts the passenger side door once he’s in and grins at Eddie, looking exhausted and delighted. “To do it again. Don’t you?”

Eddie thinks over it, then says, “Yeah, I think so.” He turns the car on, and Richie sneezes. Eddie freezes, glancing over at him, and demands, “Do you feel sick?”

“No,” Richie assures him, “I’m good. Just dust.”

* * *

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, it takes him a second to realize what sound actually startled him out of sleep: he can hear Richie vomiting loudly from the bathroom off their bedroom. Eddie stumbles out of bed, pushing open the bathroom door. Sure enough, Richie’s kneeling in front of their toilet, puking his guts up.

“I knew it,” Eddie says blearily. Richie lifts his head after a moment, looking chalky and tired. “I fucking _knew_ you’d get sick. I fucking _told you so.”_

“Can you save it for—” Richie starts to ask, but then he turns, sticks his head back in their toilet, and vomits again. Eddie comes and sits next to him, pulling his hair back out of his face and tying it back with an elastic. He rubs his back while Richie catches his breath.

“Sorry,” Eddie says. Richie sits back on his heels and wipes at his mouth with the back of his arm. Eddie’s nose wrinkles up, but he doesn’t comment.

“Worth it,” Richie tells him. Eddie helps him to his feet and waits while he brushes his teeth. He pushes the back of his hand against Richie’s forehead, frowning.

“It’s only a low fever,” he says. He tucks Richie back into their bed, then presses his lips to his forehead to get a better reading. Richie’s eyes slip shut as he does so. “I’m gonna get you some flu medicine out of the bathroom cabinet, you’ll be better in no time.”

Richie catches Eddie’s wrist and kisses his palm before he can leave. Eddie stops, looking down at him for a moment before he smiles slightly.

“I’m going to wrap you in bubble wrap the next time we go to _any_ fucking conventions,” Eddie tells him softly. Richie bites at his hand. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Richie echoes. Eddie goes to leave, just as Richie says, “Hey, Eds?”

“Yeah, Rich?”

When Eddie looks back, Richie’s grinning stupidly. “How do you keep from jumping my bones all the time?”

“Ugh.” Eddie tugs the blanket up over Richie’s face. “I knew I’d fucking regret going to that thing.”

“You don’t,” Richie says.

“I don’t,” Eddie agrees. Richie lets him go again, and Eddie goes to grab medicine out of the cabinet in the bathroom. He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror. Richie just threw up a bunch, and Eddie spent a ton of time yesterday with strangers who touched him, and he’s not having a panic attack. Richie’s definitely got a cold, probably got a flu, and Eddie’s keeping it _together._ He feels a surge of pride for himself and how far he’s come. The person who’s looking back at him in the mirror isn’t a stranger anymore, for the first time in a _long_ time; it’s finally himself. He sees Eddie Kaspbrak, in his reflection, and he’s finally happy with who that person is.

“You alright in there?” Richie shouts to ask. Eddie grabs the flu medicine and the thermometer and shuts the cabinet again.

“Yup,” he calls back. He glances at himself again, then says, “Yeah, I’m alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘What is Richie Tozier Doing Right Now’ Twitter account is based on the [What is Bill Hader Doing Right Now](https://twitter.com/hader_is_doing) Twitter account, which slaps!
> 
> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


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